I offer no defense of my hidden sin,
Not when it wastes a fragment of eternity
In frivolous expenditure, stretched so thin
Across another vast, sprawling century.
And if I would - if I were - where to begin
This tour of a macabre private gallery?
All things, even this one, have their beginnings:
Thus, my humble collection's underpinnings.

Called to this divine vocation, I set out
Each time I encountered one who, crafting art,
Demanded my attentions. Please: never doubt
The truth of my intentions; my swelling heart
Adores them, falls in love as they sing or spout
Their lifeblood inspiration. Stepping apart
From all of this, don't stare so miserably!
Can I be blamed for working literally?

I love them, one and all, and here I curate -
Safe from all the ravagings of time, if not
Precisely speaking safe from my own mandate -
The workings and workers who inspired such thought,
Such incisive action. I lay them in state
With tender care, never sold and never bought.
Perhaps a glance at my favorite pieces
Might reassure you? My latest releases?

Observe the cuts into copper, engraving
Her fury, her passion into the cold plates!
How torturous, yes? She recalled it, raving,
Having sought me out to deny the ingrates
Assailing her solitude, as a craving.
I preserved her passion. Here, her works’ mates:
The roses she treasured etched into the hard bone
Of her shoulder-blades and skull, instead of stone.

But so few beloveds grace my humble home
Despite my voracious eye surveying scores
Of likely lovers - artful, otherwise - some
Lacking, left uninvited. Those I adore,
I long to beckon close - close as you now come.
Join me? There's more to show you, so much more,
And I hope you'll linger tonight, to dine.
I've just the thing for an artist who loves wine…

life is monstrous, savage and cold.
My heart; a ticking time-bomb waiting to get old.
Frantic whispers in my head "no time left, no time left "
Time is an ambush predator, agile and adept.
Lost in an abyss, only glimpses of far away stars, out of reach.

                                                        U­P into the vacuum I screech.
                                                   Up
                                             up
Internal pressures build
This panic is meaningless, soon, existence will be obsolete.

I'll bunker down in a fortress of distraction, and pull the blanket over my head.
I'll make a mansion of books, where fantasy filled delusions pacify my dread.
I'll cling to Lifes' bared teeth as I'm shaken side to side.
In time, time will release its predatory grip, let me live this life of mine.

I wish the words would come
That I could “ring them out like the rain”
Even this one though
Doesn’t end for me

Degraded to online prompts
With the delusional last-hope
That these words
Will bring mine some solace

Three prompts shallow
The charmed one stares bashfully back at me
“Write about something or someone you lost”

I used to write about sunshine
Tattooed into your wrist

My eyes incapable of reading past;
The other prompts fall backward
Blank and dull--nothing changed

The page blurred
I know that those are the only words I feel
Even these words though
And the feelings they evoke
Are empty

Nothing holds anything
No laughter in your throat
I see your pictures
I want to dig it out
From the cave of your mouth
Frantic; I need to find your smile
The words spoken only to me
I miss you

My spirit hinges between yesterday and tomorrow
The present isolated—anything but lived
With that thought
You feel even more wasted

‘Wasted’
Prompts the image:
Me slapping myself
Popping the unspoken word from out of my mouth
Wasted
Black letters laying on the floor
in a white wall room
Staring back at me

Erase this stanza
Grow back my charisma
Where did I lose my empathy
Replaced with sick sympathy
How could I say this about you

Worse even,
Is my silence
After hearing from cold lips “what a shame”
The lose breath hangs
The words replaced with brief and noncommittal reflection
Followed by the shake of a faceless head
Before turning back to its newspaper

The word Shame
Stabs slowly
Only because you did make all of your choices
You did leave us

Still, I keep my eyes from casting to the ground
I am not left someplace dingy
There is no soot covering where my cheeks should be rosey
You are not shame

The words do not come
They sit muddied and sopping
A rag dismissed to the few-days-grayed sidewalk
Rain falls and attempts to take in space where there is none
Even a sponge becomes too full
I miss you

She stupefy truth
with her finely crafted lies
that stand head held high
without even
the slightest sign
of embarrassment.
She waters the seeds
with acid, deliberately
even manage to get kudos
for her 'kind intervention'
Her 'collected venom'
in real, is a counterfeit concoction
more deadly than the real,
that attracts unlimited attention
and the loudest rounds of applause,
for it's new shade of blue
when displayed with special effects
for all to view.
In her presence, fairness loses its meaning
foulness like her, usurps it, makes its own,
becomes the reigning queen!
Whatever she does
has a dark beauty,
even the true angel of evil
would greatly envy her.